


Slippery When Wet

by englandwouldfalljohn



Series: All Roads Lead to Bart's: Alternate First Meetings [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bon Jovi is life, Casinos and gambling, Depressed John Watson, Eventual Johnlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Not So Innocent Sherlock, Smut, Song fic that is not a song fic, Song lyrics interwoven into story, implied suicidal thoughts, what happens in vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: When John's return to London reunited him with some old rugby mates, they unanimously insisted that the proper cure for his limp ("you go get shot and then talk to me about psychosomatic") was a quick trip to Las Vegas. A few pints, a casino or two, and they'd be on their way home. But there was one thing John Watson hadn't gambled on…





	1. One Wild Night

**Author's Note:**

> Darling friends, this is so ridiculous but I simply couldn't resist. I blame Fandoms_Unite.
> 
> All lyrics by Bon Jovi. I own nothing, etc.

"It's a hot night – the natives are restless," one of them joked as they rounded the corner to the strip.

"These aren't natives, they're tourists. And of course it's hot, we're in the middle of the bloody desert. Remind me which one of you tossers thought this would be a good holiday for a man just back from Afghanistan?"

"Oh relax, John, this is our stop."

They had approached the entrance to a club called "The Twilight Zone" _(clever)_ , where the bouncer wasn't stopping anyone who looked remotely of age. The crowd outside was full of smokers, drinks in hand, who were chatting loudly, clearly already buzzed _(or maybe never sobered)._ Standing slightly apart, just to the left of the door, was a tall man in a designer suit that was inappropriately dark for the heat, despite it being gone eleven at night. The man raised an inscrutable eyebrow at John as he passed at the back of the pack.

Without knowing quite why, John stopped. A song he vaguely recognized, "Voodoo Mojo," was pouring its electronic bass rhythm onto the pavement. He turned his back on the noise and considered the sky, devoid of stars for the city glow.

"Sweating by the light of the moon, eh?" He offered to the man, who made him feel simultaneously self-conscious and strangely bold. By way of reply, the man lifted an unlit cigarette to his lips and leaned slightly forward. John paused a moment, then, struck by sudden comprehension, hurried to fish a "What Happens in Vegas" novelty lighter from his jeans pocket. He stood staring a moment after transferring the flame. Inhale: poison green eyes. Exhale: icy blue.

'Well then," he said dumbly, "I guess I'll just…" He rolled his shirtsleeves, wishing he could shed his skin, and made his way into the bump and the grind.

Two hours, five tequila shots, and – for some unknown reason – one margarita later, John was finally feeling alright. _This is why people come to this city,_ he thought, making eye contact with a group of drunk women in short skirts at the edge of the dance floor, apparently having as much fun as you can in your clothes.

"Later!" one of the guys yelled into his ear over the pounding of a song that sounded suspiciously like the three before it. "Time to lose a little money."

They wound their way around a bar, through rows of slot machines, around – another bar? _(fuck, no wonder everyone's always wasted in this town) –_ and finally, through a large archway labeled "Vertigo."

"So, what'll it be, mate?" Two of their number waved from a blackjack table. John scanned the room. "Craps," he decided. _Best to go for a game of chance. At least if I lose, it won't be my fault._

"Hard eight!" John's head was spinning. He didn't know how it had happened, but the stack of chips in front of him had grown steadily into several towers, and the crowd around the table had swelled while the number of actual players had dropped to only two. Having finally given up on blackjack, the last two members of his group sidled up to the table.

"What's going on? What'd we miss?"

"Not too much," John answered, smirking. He nodded toward his only opponent. "Just rolling the bones with 'Jimmy No-dice.' Gonna take him for a couple weeks pay."

"Victor," the bloke across the table corrected bitterly. John couldn't be certain through the thrum of the crowd and the copious amount of alcohol flooding his veins, but he thought he detected an English accent.

"Victor, then," he acquiesced, throwing out his most charming smile. "You don't seem to have too much more to wager. How about a friendly bet between countrymen," he ventured.

Victor inclined his head in silent, grudging assent.

"If you lose this roll… I take your girlfriend home."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Then, as if choreographed, it parted, creating a corridor between the table and the club. John's heart stopped. He couldn't believe who came walking out.


	2. Wanted, Dead or Alive

He spoke suddenly through a haze of his own cigarette smoke.

"It's all the same." Another long, bored drag. "Only the names will change."

John wasn't sure about the topic of discussion, as they hadn't exchanged a single word since leaving the casino. Well, to be fair, _they_ hadn't exactly left the casino. That tall man whose cigarette he’d lit on the pavement – Victor Trevor's “girlfriend”, it turned out – had parted the crowd like the wrong end of a magnet and simply followed him back to his hotel room. They'd been sitting in silence, whiskeys in hand, the one chain smoking, for an hour.

_Ok, fifteen minutes, but still…_

Uncertain how to respond, John took aim at the habit rather than the man’s statement.

"Those things will kill you, you know. 'S been proven."

"Everyday," exaggerated exhale, "it seems we're wasting away. This city is just another place where, despite the abhorrent heat, the faces are so cold." The impassive expression on his inscrutable face stood in stark contrast to the dramatic melancholy of his words. Words that, for some reason, John felt he could relate to.

"Tell me about it. I think I'd fly all night just to get back home."

The stranger leaned forward, sharp elbows on knees, and studied him for a moment. Then, sitting back almost triumphantly, he declared, "You have no home."

"That's not true," came the automatic defense, "I've got a small – "

"I said _home_ , not flat, John."

 _John_. They had never exchanged names. _He must've heard one of the guys say it on my way out, that's all._ It made perfect sense, yet for some reason he was a bit unnerved.

"Yes, I did hear one of your friends say it on the way out. No need to look so alarmed. Although – "

John froze halfway into a relaxed posture. _Although?_

"It is rather curious that for a man with a group of friends concerned enough to accompany him on a holiday abroad, you're still struggling to find an adequate living situation back in London."

"How… would you know?"

"You don't want to know how I know. You want to be intrigued by the mysterious stranger. It's quite alright," he held up a slightly shaking hand at the forthcoming protest, "they all do. Why do you think he doesn't mind me joining you like this?"

"Who doesn't mind?"

Another cigarette was lit. "Victor. Obviously."

 _Victor. Who the hell is… oh, right._ John wasn't surprised he had forgotten Victor – ok he was, but not important now. He was more taken aback by the something stirring in his chest at the sound of another man’s name on the stranger’s lips. Something he shouldn't be feeling in regard to anyone he hardly knew, let alone another bloke. _Keep talking, it'll pass._

"Why doesn't he mind? I mean you two are… I guess you'd call it… a couple?"

An undisguised sneer. "We have… an arrangement."

John nodded slowly, letting his eyes fall to the glowing amber extension of those long white fingers. And the wrist peeking out of the suit -  far too thin for a man that height. Back to the hands, which were still trembling slightly. A quick glance at the traces of sleeplessness around the eyes –

"Ah, ok, I see. _An arrangement._ Well," it wasn't polite, but what about this situation was anyway, "not that it's any of my business, but I am a medical doctor."

"Yes, that's quite apparent in the way you hold your – "

"And you're high right now, aren't you." It wasn't a question, and his semi-invited guest looked away in confirmation. "What do you do for him, then, in exchange?" There was no judgment in his tone, and a surprising amount of concern.

More than he usually heard. _Perhaps more than I've ever heard._ Something about this former soldier was different.

"I deduce people. Humiliate them, normally. I leave the casino with them and they think they've won some prize, but that impression doesn't last long enough for me to remove my jacket. Then I go back with stories. He laughs, and I…"

"Right. Well, have at it then. I've just returned from Afghanistan, have a flat but not a home, mates who'd use me as an excuse to spend a weekend gambling and drinking, made a bargain to take a strange woman back to my room, ended up with a man and didn't refuse… what d’you have to say about me?"

John didn't know why he'd opened up like that, or why he was so intent on ripping himself apart. Maybe it was time for the truth. Maybe leaving it here in another city, with a person he would never share more than a drink with, would never see again, was some form of catharsis. Maybe he hoped he'd be taken down the rest of the way, far enough to see himself for everything he was, enough to finally allow him the ammunition he needed to end it.

"Sometimes I sleep," the stranger replied quietly, "sometimes it's not for days. The people I meet… they all go their separate ways. Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink, and sometimes when I'm alone… all I do is think. John," he paused, waiting.

"Watson."

"Like it or not – you're a cowboy."

John looked up, startled. _What's that supposed to mean?_

"Listen. I play for keeps, because I might not make it back." He stood gracefully, turning to deposit his half-empty glass on the dresser by the door, his cigarette hissing as he extinguished it in the bronze liquid.

"Goodnight, John Watson."

And that was it. He was gone.

John spent the rest of the night tossing under his sheets in frustration, though he couldn't explain what had him so upset. It wasn't until he'd returned from an obscenely large breakfast buffet, third helping of coffee in a takeaway cup, that he noticed the thick, cream-colored business card left under the ashy remains of Jack Daniels.

Clutching it tighter than was necessary, as though he was afraid it would blow away despite the hermetically sealed windows, he flipped it over. There, in a languid blue script, he read:

_The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street._


	3. You Give Love A Bad Name

He stood on the pavement opposite, one door down, oblivious to the faint wind or the irritated Londoners it carried with it. Over the past 20 minutes, he'd leaned heavily on his cane, watching as the light in the front room had been switched on, casting a warm backlight on the figure tuning his instrument, drawing his bow, and playing unaware of his audience of one.

Staring out at nothing from the first floor window as though dispassionately surveying the kingdom of lesser men below, the man’s skin glowed an unearthly white, reflecting the wintry mist descending slowly as evening approached - or perhaps allowing some cold secret to expose itself in this lonely hour.

John granted himself a moment to remember that evening, now 5000 miles away. Though less than a fortnight had passed, the screen of alcohol and fitful sleep had dulled the details and left him with little more than an abnormally poetic recollection.

 _An angel’s smile is what you sell_ , he murmured to the increasingly shadowed man across the street. _You promise me heaven, and put me through hell…_

“Shit.” His impromptu reverie was broken by a large carrier-bag-wielding bloke smashing against his right shoulder as he passed. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a small slip of paper in the blackened slush by the curb; the address card, though still legible, was soggy and discolored. “Shit!” He wiped it futily on his trouser leg before cramming it safely into his jacket pocket, not sparing a thought for the reason he might be keeping it.

When he returned his attention to the far side of Baker Street, the figure in the window had gone and the room was dark. John remained frozen in place, frustratingly cognizant of both the storm clouds building in the distance and the thought running without permission through his mind: _when passion’s a prison, you can’t break free._ Shaking his head, he pulled his jacket closer, right hand clutching the wet note as if it were a secret he could not risk giving away. Dragging his feet toward the tube entrance, he failed to notice the man stepping out of the shadows in front of the coffeeshop beside 221b, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground as his long stride closed the distance, unfastened black coat billowing in the winter wind.

*

John stopped abruptly two doors down from his own flat. His peripheral vision scanned the alley to his right - dead end - and he became all too aware of the neighborhood’s mid-afternoon lull in traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular. He had three options; he chose the third.

“I’ve a loaded gun.” _God, this’d better work. There’s nowhere to run._

“Yes,” came the lazy baritone close behind him. “Fortunately for me, it’s upstairs on the… fifth floor. Dressing table, top right-hand drawer.’

John felt a muscle twitch in his neck, and hoped it wasn’t visible.

“Shouldn’t keep it loaded, you know. Even with the safety on, there’s always a chance you’ll… oh. Oh, I see.”

John unconsciously flexed his left hand, squared his shoulders, and spun around on his heel to face the man who’d been tailing him since Baker Street.

“What do you want then? Another chance to play your clever little game of humiliation? Victor waiting back at home with a syringe for you to reveal the misery of my existence, then? Poor lonely soldier who never left the war?”

He thought he saw something like sadness flash in those cold grey eyes, but if it was ever there, it was replaced instantly with a smug smile.

“You can spend the afternoon standing open-mouthed outside of my flat, watching me compose from a distance, but I’m berated for following you back to yours - quite openly, I might add. Rather a double-standard, wouldn’t you say, doctor?”

“Doctor. How’d you guess?”

“I never guess.”

John shifted restlessly from foot to foot. He’d lurked outside the home of a man who’d invited him there. He’d been too… something… to simply knock, watched the man follow him home, and waited until the last moment to confront him aggressively. Everything about this was wrong. It wasn’t him. Hadn’t been since that night, and he’d known it all along.  The worst of it was, it didn’t _feel_ wrong. It felt like -

“So tell me, Dr. Watson. Why do you keep a loaded gun in your flat?”

“I thought you’d already guessed that,” he replied with an irritation in his voice that barely masked the anxiety he felt at the subject being raised so casually.

“I told you, I never guess. I deduce.”

“Fine. Either way - if you know, why d’you need me to tell you?”

“I don’t need you to. You need you to. Until you admit it, I can’t save you.”

“No one can save me.”

“You’re quite sure about that?” A dark curl fell across his left eye as he tilted his head, his expression reading more intrigued than concerned.

“The damage is done,” he stated resolutely. At least, he assumed it sounded resolute. _Who knows how anything sounds to this junkie madman._

“Junkie… perhaps. Madman, no. I simply observe where others merely see. And you, I observe, have been shot through the heart. Though at what moment, precisely, I have yet to determine.”

John swallowed hard. “It was the shoulder, in fact.”

“I beg to differ.”

_What is he playing at? And who the hell is he to say -_

“You have a smartphone and a laptop. You know perfectly well who I am, or at least, you will in less than five minutes. Next time you come to Baker Street -” he reached into his enormous wool coat, smirking as John’s jaw dropped when he was handed back his own cane, “knock.”

Sherlock Holmes disappeared into rapidly thickening snowfall as John Watson remained there on the pavement, shaking his head in annoyance at himself. _Whatever it is this bloke does,_ he thought, beginning the predicted internet search _, he gives it a bad name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay... life and adulting and such. Getting back in the groove finally :)


	4. Bad Medicine/Runaway

“First you need. Then you bleed. You get a little, but it’s never enough. And when you’re on your knees -”

“Yes, John. I am your psychiatrist, after all.  I did attend medical school, same as you.”

“Right,” he nodded distractedly before looking up as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Yeah, sorry. Of course you did.”

Ella studied her notepad before she spoke again, carefully maintaining that exasperatingly even tone. “You said you met him on your recent holiday to America -”

“Las Vegas, yeah.” His gaze drifted out the window to the courtyard, where a fresh dusting of powdery snow swirled a few inches in the air, erasing footprints as it went. The desert suddenly seemed worlds away.

*

_On the street where Victor lived, the already tipsy young women - girls, really - would meet early, joining the eager queue for the club. Their laughter would precede them as they gossiped inanely about their social lives. Made of lipstick, plastic, and paint, Sherlock despised them. They could be replaced. Most of the vapid inhabitants of this wretched town could. He was more irritable than usual. He needed a fix. It would come soon; only a few blocks further. He’d thrown away his second chance with that army doctor yesterday, though if he was honest with himself - which he tried never to be - he had not actually intended to unleash the sharper tools in his arsenal upon the man. When Sherlock had noticed him standing on Baker Street, he’d felt as though he was suddenly living in another world, trying to get his message through. Exactly what message that was, he himself still wasn’t sure. He needed to focus. He needed to think. He needed a hit. And without his usual tales of humiliation, he only had one thing to trade for it. He shuddered slightly at the thought, and spared a sliver of gratitude for the fact that Victor had recently had his flat carpeted._

_*_

“Las Vegas, yes. But you never explained how you met this…” she scanned her notes once more. “What was his name?”

“Hm?” He faced the woman across from him again, eyebrows raised. “No, I don’t know. I was gambling, had been drinking a bit I suppose. Won a bet off his boyfriend,” he swallowed, belying his desperation to sound indifferent, “and we just sort of ended up… chatting. Nothing special, really.”

“Nothing special?”

He shrugged. “Not that I can recall, no.”

“Then why’ve you been talking about him for,” she consulted her watch, “23 minutes?”

*

_He hadn’t heard a single word Victor had said. He hadn’t needed to - he could see it in his eyes, what was going around his head. Sherlock had found himself spared from providing payment through satisfaction of the man’s carnal desires by - ironically - the man’s carnal desires. There was a new player on the local scene, and Victor aimed to be the first to stake a claim he would no doubt grow bored with in a matter of weeks, if not days. Ensuring his success was foremost on his mind, and he was thoroughly convinced, much to the detective’s chagrin and relief, that he required a highly specialized form of assistance. And to bolster the abilities that would win him his prize this evening, his weapon of choice would need to be functioning at full speed. He despised him. Despised this end of London, despised the superficial fools pouring through the doors, the repetitive jabber of the electronic staccato. As he watched his partner, an intrusive image of a bare-souled army doctor flashed before his eyes. His supplier, that’s what Victor was. He watched him work the floor, handing out smiles and samples, Doctor Feelgood in the flesh, and knew that all this pulsing obscenely around them was simply part of him. He liked the lights at night on the neon Broadway-esque signs. He didn’t really mind. Not though it was love he hoped to find. Sherlock glanced toward the fire exit at the rear of the bar. He’d felt he somehow owed Victor the convenience of meeting him here, and had therefore inadvertently protected his own space by never having the man round his own flat. A rapid scan of his mind palace confirmed that he hadn’t even shared his address. If he slipped out now, he could simply go home and never came back… There was that vision of John Watson again. He didn’t know why, but walking out suddenly seemed shockingly easy, whereas staying, with this lingering mental soldier regarding him with such serious curiosity, made him feel like - _

_*_

“He’s a runaway, that’s what he is.” John blurted, apropos of nothing they had discussed in the past ten minutes. Ella laid her pen down and folded her hands atop her pad, waiting for the inevitable elaboration. “There are the drugs; that’s a means of escape right there. But it’s… it’s more than that with him, you know? It’s… it’s as if he’d learned fast all those things I couldn’t say.”

“Such as?”

He looked at her and blinked twice, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, gaze returning from the middle distance.

“You said, ‘all those things I couldn’t say.’ What things are those?”

“Did I?” His feigned surprise was poorly acted, and he knew it. “I meant we. The people whose secrets he deduces for entertainment.”

“You describe it as something terrible, but you don’t sound as though you were particularly offended.” She ventured.

“No.” This time his surprise was genuine. “No, I suppose I’m not, really.” _Not at that, anyway,_ he thought. _He’ll be out there tonight, most likely. Maybe even now. He’ll use a different line every night, something guaranteed to blow their minds, no doubt. Meanwhile, I’ll spend another evening sitting home alone with this damn cane and my flashbacks. There’s nothing useful left that you can do, Watson. Hell, there aren’t even pictures hung in the shadows left there to look at you._

“John?”

“Hm? Yeah, right. Sorry. What was the question?”

“I said, our time this evening is up.”

*

_The snow had stopped hours ago, leaving the air with a crystalline clarity that allowed the frozen stars to shine just a little brighter. Ice rode the crest of the breeze that stirred the hem of his heavy coat as he stood, stock still, beneath the nondescript facade of brick mortared with broken dreams. He still would not admit that he needed the needle to be giving himself a thrill. He swore it was nothing more than self-administered anesthesia, and certainly easier than convincing a nurse to bring him pills. He was growing tired, however, of these dirty addictions - he needed something that didn’t leave a track. Wisps of breath rose, obscuring his view of one lit fifth floor window before dissipating into the silence of four a.m. When you find your medicine, you take what you can get, he used to think. But now… perhaps there is a doctor that can cure this disease._


	5. Fear

“I see you looking over your shoulder.”

He’d been staring at the paranoid soldier in the striped jumper and olive jacket for 8 minutes. Despite all the man’s concern for his surroundings, he had not noticed the rather obvious Belstaffed detective leaning against a display of lavender infused chocolates, biscuits, and assorted accompaniments, sending underpaid employees scurrying with nothing more than his patented withering glance.

“It’s a tea shop, John. Tell me -- who do you think’s out there?” Sherlock pointed toward the large frosted front window with the gloves clutched in his right hand.

“I wasn’t-- I’m not. I mean, I don’t. Think someone’s… out there. I need to buy my tea,” he added unnecessarily, holding up the tin of Irish breakfast as proof of the legitimacy of his errand.

Sherlock merely nodded and strode out of the store with an unsurprising flourish, tugging black leather over his musician’s fingers. It was just as well; he’d been desperate to light another cigarette. Sixth of the day, or possibly seventh. It didn’t matter. He’d take what he needed, there was no heart in this city. He allowed John a head start, watching him shift his carrier to adjust his coat, before stretching his limbs to catch up in a few long, powerful strides.

“You’re imprisoned by those things, you know.” John pushed his lips out a bit, not sparing so much as a flinch for his stalker.

“Everybody’s doing their sentence,” he replied, flicking half of the still-lit cigarette into the gutter. He considered the one he’d escaped the night before, and wondered whether he might actually be trading it for another. Not that he was free of that other demon, the one that curled and twisted in his veins, tainting his blood and releasing his mind into a gilded jail of his own creation. It was where he was expected to live, halls from which he was to report his genius to the world. Victor may have unlocked the door, but he was far from the architect. He had not made him, no. Sherlock was well aware of that. _No one made me. I made me. But perhaps…_

“I watched my father live a lie here,” the doctor disrupted his self-defamatory spiral. “Sometimes I wonder… I wonder whether I might,” he sighed as if abandoning his thought. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead of them, careful not to make any more deductions than were necessary to determine whether his company had grown unwelcome. He knew that, often, the best way to convince someone to continue an uncomfortable statement was simply to wait. And so on they walked, the silent steam rising from their involuntarily parted mouths a constant reminder of the smoke not rising from his own.

“I wonder whether I might be living a lie myself.”

“What kind of lie?”

John shrugged, hunching his shoulders in a manner suggestive of his secret suddenly being visible, though no physical change could be perceived.

“Anyway,” he slowed to a stop at the corner and inhaled deeply, “I’d rather die than fade away. And something tells me you’re more than a bit that way yourself.”

“Mmm,” was the blank reply. “Well then,” and Sherlock nodded, far too little data giving him far too much to consider, as he turned and crossed the road alone.

***

John inclined his head slightly, straightened it, then turned his upper body fully toward the other end of the seat. The taxi felt blazing hot compared to the winter wind that’d bitten him as he had waited to be collected.

“Murder?”

“Hm?” Sherlock tilted only his chin toward his companion as he clicked away at his mobile.

“You said this… case… that the police have been tracking. It involves murder?” he inquired anxiously.

“Hm. Murder, yes.” Then, looking up and blinking rapidly as if confused to find the doctor beside him, “Yes. Well, the poison.”

“Ahh,” came the aspirated response, followed immediately by, “what?”

The explanation was delayed as Sherlock continued tapping at the keys of his phone, giving John a moment to reflect on how he’d ended up here this evening. Two hours after Sherlock had disappeared into the crowd outside the tea shop - a shop John should never even have been in, given his current financials - he exchanged a short series of texts with the mysterious man himself:

**Ever run with the rats in this city? - SH**

**Can’t say that I have.**

**Makes you feel like you’re a partner in crime. - SH**

John had perched on the edge of his lonely single bed, staring at a blinking cursor, unable, for the life of him, to determine an appropriate response. Fortunately for him, the screen jumped again.

**The corner at the further cross-street to your flat. At 7. - SH**

**I have a date at 8.**

**Cancel it. This will be far more interesting. - SH**

And with that, John Watson gave up his plans to go to the pub alone, spent half an hour selecting a jumper, and was at the corner not two minutes when a taxi barely halted while its door was flung wide and, “Get it, John,” boomed from the far window.

“Right,” came the sudden over-enunciation from his host for the evening. “John Watson… what do you know about…”

***

They were running at top speed, John’s post-war injuries obviously forgotten as they made to escape the network of sewers with their lives. Finally, just as the doctor’s breath sounded as though it was about to give out, the cloudy London night came into view through the open manhole by which they’d entered. There was the ping of blow darts hitting the walls around them, shots losing their accuracy in the darkness, though Sherlock’s coat collar did sustain a rather unfortunate dethreading.

The taller man was just shoving his accomplice’s foot through the opening above them when he felt the sting glance across his left knuckles. John gripped his wrists and pulled hard, both collapsing onto the pavement as the sound of receding footsteps echoed through the world below.

“You alright?” John huffed. He was less sure than ever about who this other man could possibly be.

“Mostly,” Sherlock answered distractedly, examining the back of his hand.

“Oh shit… let me see it. Call 999.”

“It only grazed me, I’m sure I will… um…” He shook his head, tongue growing a bit heavy in his mouth.

“You will call. Now.”

“Right,” he acquiesced, mind racing through his symptoms and the profiles of each of the 462 poisons which he had made it his business to study.

“Here, sit down,” John instructed, already hearing sirens in the distance. “Lucky for you I let you talk me into this, though I have no idea why. Just being here, we’re breathing heart attacks.”

“Because you need a flatmate,” came the slurred reply, “and I need a partner. Think of it, John. We can run. Chase the setting sun.”

“You may be a bit delirious, Sherlock; you’re not making any sense.”

“Take my hand, John?” He whispered loudly as the paramedics approached. “I know we’ll make it. I’ll let nothing slow us down…”

“Alright, that’s enough. Time to go to hospital. But speaking of slowed down, did you ever determine what the poison was, and why the murderer would be hiding in the sewer? Disgusting man-made swamp of -”

“Swamp! John, you’re a genius!” Sherlock shouted as they loaded him onto the stretcher. “The swamp! That’s the… the, um… the…”

“Yes, I need to ride with him, I’m his…” John had almost said “doctor,” then took one look at the flash of brilliance in hazy lapis eyes, “partner.”

“The… swamp… John! John!” Just as the oxygen mask went on, one final word escaped that would save his life. A word seemingly so unrelated to their activities of that night that John was left with only one sensation: fear.


	6. Something for the Pain/This Ain't a Love Song

“Indonesia?” The DI asked incredulously. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Could’ve just been more of his drugged rambling.”

“Happiness has been no friend to him,” the detective began with a sad shake of his head. “I’ve heard his drugged rambling mate, and that sounds exactly like something he would say, alright. Point is, even his drugged rambling usually makes sense. Not to me, mind, but to him. Not that that helps us now.”

John Watson paced the corridor outside the room where Sherlock’s condition was slowly deteriorating. He’d been right about the pattern of victims, the murderer’s location, and the method of transmitting the poison. But unless someone determined what the poison was - a job the hospital staff was failing at spectacularly, despite having called in a specialist - the flesh wound might serve to send him to an early grave. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t the worst way to go. John had long suspected that ‘forever after’ wasn’t at all what it was cracked up to be. 

“Why were you there with him again, Mr…”

“Doctor. John Watson.”

“Dr. Watson, then. Why were you -”

“He’d invited me along. Said I… said he needed a… a partner.”

“Well, I don’t know how someone as normal as you got mixed up with the likes of him, but now it’s up to you to sort this out before his curiosity kills him. Sherlock’s got more than nine lives, I’d reckon, but still, one of them is bound to be his last.”

John clenched and flexed his left hand with anxious impatience at himself. He’d had a taste of what, for a few hours, had seemed like a fantasy. Then, as always, it had hit: reality. How was it suddenly on him to save the life of this adrenaline junkie madman when he could barely save his own? If he didn’t find the solution, the way to turn this night around, he himself might be a headline, though for all his life was worth, it may as well have been on yesterday’s news...

“Let’s review what we know, yeah? Maybe something will fall into place. Now: we know the suspect was hiding in the sewer system beneath… London Zoo? Oh, makes sense, says here he’s one of the animal habitat development team. Strange that, two cases involving the ZSL in one month,” DI Lestrade scratched his chin.

“Wait, what was the other?”  _ Come on, come on, _ John pleaded silently. _ Give me something I can use. _

“Ongoing. Reports of a break-in at the reptile exhibit, though nothing appeared to be stolen. Can’t imagine what someone would… Dr. Watson?”

John had already demanded the whereabouts of the specialist assigned to Sherlock’s case from a nearby nurse and was running down the sterile white corridor. As he rounded a corner, the detective inspector heard him yelling a single word: “Indonesia!”

***

“That night in America…” Sherlock mumbled, monitors chirping out their rhythms, too slow, but increasing as the new IV began to do its work.

“Sherlock, you need to rest. You can tell me another -”

“I should’ve seen it. The end of summer, in your eyes. Except it wasn’t… not your summer. It was mine ending, John. And maybe… maybe that was for the…” He paused as John sighed wearily, standing as much to avoid the awkward monologue as to check that Sherlock’s heart rate was improving.

“Isn’t it… funny, John… I never learned to fall. Turns out, only fools are know-it-alls.”

“You played that fool well, then,” John laughed, trying, and failing, to lighten the mood.

“I did. For you. I thought this… I thought it was for me, John. Maybe it was, I don’t know anymore. But tonight, when I realized I had put you in real danger… I almost died for you, John.”

“What do you mean?” the doctor asked, tone betraying his interest.

“Could’ve… run faster. Could’ve… left you behind. I tried… I tried to deny it, but I haven’t been able to stop since that night, that first night. John… something about you… something in you… drove me…” Just before he faded off, John caught one last word, “crazy…”

***

“What in the bloody hell is a komodo dragon, and why would its poison be in Sherlock?!” The DI dropped his pen without noticing.

“Venom, actually. That’s what the break-in was at the zoo. Something was stolen after all. It’s the biggest lizard in the world, and it has this venom in its mouth that causes low-level paralysis and prevents blood coagulation. That habitat bloke - has he been showing up for work as usual?”

“Yeah, yeah he has.”

“My guess is he’s having psychotic episodes triggered by something in his personal life. Not realizing you’re committing murder does help you get away with the perfect crime. I’d call off the search team, he’s not likely to strike again tonight. Bring him in when he turns up for his shift tomorrow.”

“Alright. And you got all this from Indonesia?” Lestrade was clearly impressed, and John was too tired to enjoy or deflect it.

“On the way out this evening, Sherlock had mentioned the reptile house break-in. He’d been keeping it on his radar, he said, in case it became a… what’d he say…”

“Higher than a 4?”

“Yes. What’s that mean, anyway?”

“He’s got a rating system for cases,” the DI rolled his eyes. “Bit of a legend in his own mind, but I half-suspect he low-balls them just to make me look bad. Well, Dr. Watson, thank you for all of your assistance with this, and for - well, for saving Sherlock Holmes’ life. Even though it meant playing rather the renegade for a night.”

“Please, call me John.”

“John. Suspect we’ll be seeing more of you then, eh? Might want to consider moving in, if I may be so bold.”

“W-why would you…”  _ Give me a reason other than what springs to mind,  _ John thought. _ Tell me I’m wrong… of course, I’m wrong… this can’t be a - _

“You being a doctor and all, and the way he runs around this town chasing murderers.” It sounded plausible enough, until Lestrade winked. “Might be good for the both of you, in fact.”

***

Sherlock sat alone, irritated that someone - Lestrade, almost certainly - had informed the nurses about his  _ history,  _ and that they therefore refused to give him something for the pain. He was reaching for the assistance call button again when the doorknob finally turned.

“It’s about time someone - oh. John.”

“Sherlock.”

“John, I suppose I should apologize -”

“No need, Sherlock. Now that you’ve lived through it, I can admit that it was one hell of an adventure.”

“It was, yes. But that’s not what I was apologizing for. While I may have been somewhat… uninhibited recently, I was not unaware of my speech to you. Given what you’ve done for me I feel I owe you a bit of myself. Which is to say, the truth.”

“You don’t need to -”

“John, please. I play the detached, emotionally-stunted sociopath well, but it is playacting. I so rarely feel compelled to reveal a piece of the man behind the mask. Indulge me?”

John nodded his silent assent.

“Loneliness… has found a home in Baker Street. Perhaps it had the moment I arrived.”

“What about Victor? I thought he -”

“He does not, nor has he ever, resided with me. And I no longer… I tried to need him, John, the way people need one another. Nothing ever… when I was younger, I opened up my heart and all it did was bleed. So with Victor, I… he was simply a means to an end, as was I. He has found someone else for whom to play his role now, and I… have moved on. And if I’m very, very lucky, then within a few weeks, you will have moved in.”

John licked his lips unconsciously as he watched where his right hand gripped the sidebar on the bed - without shaking. 

“Give me something for the pain, John.”

“Something like?”

“You.”


	7. Lay Your Hands On Me

“There’s an extra bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two…” Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, remarked offhand as she laid a cup of tea and some biscuits on the coffee table beside her prone tenant. 

“Do you usually bring his tea?” John asked, surprised at his own discomfort with the previous subject. 

“Just this once, dear. I’m not his housekeeper,” she chided, examining the man on the sofa as if he were her own son just back from hospital. “Oh, but look at the state you’ve gone and got yourself into, Sherlock. All for one of these cases of yours.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock paused to wince as he shifted his weight, “we did manage to identify the perpetrator of a string of homicides, and thanks to my  _ state,  _ the police should be able to apprehend him now.”

Mrs. Hudson’s brow furrowed. “We, dear?”

“John and I.”

The landlady turned toward John, smiling and mouthing “thank you” as she squeezed his arm, then departing for her own flat downstairs. 

“So then. Back to the matter at hand. What do you think of the flat? I suspect it will suit your situation.”

“Before we can talk about that… however you guessed -”

“Deduced.”

“Sherlock… the drugs. We need to talk about,” he huffed a breath, not wanting to sound judgmental. Not wanting to sound like his father. “Why? Is it just the addiction itself, or is there… some underlying reason? Some trigger? Because I can’t simply turn a blind eye to -”

“They say that to really free your body, you’ve got to free your mind. I suppose in my case, the reverse is true. I do my best deductions - my best work - while… freed.”

“You can’t expect me to just -”

“If. I were to give it up - which I can, John, despite of your skepticism - I would require something to replace it. Something that could serve the same function of clearing my mind, and thereby sharpening my focus.”

A hesitant smile lifted the corners of John’s mouth. “I am a doctor, Sherlock. A good one, if I say so myself. I suspect I could help you find something that would work. If you’re ready, I’m willing and able. Just let me -”

“No, John, let me. I’m going to lay both of our cards out on the table,” he interrupted, sitting up and leaning forward conspiratorially, elbows on knees, long fingers steepled before dry pink lips. “Since the night that clearly did not stay in Vegas, I’ve harbored a certain sense of… hope. I’m not prone to outbursts of hope. And, as I now find myself sitting face to face with you, I believe it’s safe to say that those rules, the ones we’ve silently contracted between us, are meant for breaking.”

John had cast a slow, longing glance over half of the detective’s body before he caught himself in the act. Considering the glint in the other man’s eyes, he wasn’t the first to notice what he’d been doing. 

“What you get isn’t always what you see. However, I do believe that, with this arrangement, our mutual satisfaction would be guaranteed.”

John withdrew into a memory of the night before. Sherlock had claimed that John wanted a flatshare, and that he himself wanted a partner. In the moment, he’d assumed “partner” referred to his business, to these… cases. Had he in fact meant -

“No. Although the thought had crossed my mind, and to be honest, I shouldn’t be surprised if it crosses yours before too long. But at present, let’s stick to the original assumption. A partner for outside of these walls, yes. Perhaps only slightly less within… to start.”

“To be clear,” John began, swallowing hard, “you’re referring specifically to…”

“Always the practical one, insisting on having it spelled out? No, that’s not really you. I should guess that’s your therapist. But if you insist? Alright. Dr. Watson, I wish you to lay your hands on me.”

He had predicted how John would blink for an inordinate amount of time, stand slowly, then nearly dive over the coffee table. He had not predicted that he would be pulled down on top of him, nor how forcefully. From the first moments outside of that nightclub, John had worn his closeted bisexuality on his sleeve, just as he’d worn his solemn contemplation about the value of his own life on the other. Now, it seemed, something had snapped in the man - perhaps broken, but more likely, the final pin had fallen into place, unlocking that part of his identity, of his personality, that he’d fought for a lifetime to keep hidden from himself. And now here it all was, every last inch of Doctor John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, exposing itself beneath the adept fingers of one Sherlock Holmes. 

Clever teeth pulled fiercely on a thin lower lip, sucking and biting until the words began to spill.

“You - nnggh - you say you want something…”

“Need, John,” Sherlock spoke loudly against John’s lips, dragging him into a sitting position by his shirt front, only to shove the offending fabric roughly off his shoulders and onto the floor.

“Need. I can give it to you, if you promise to give it back.”

Sherlock smiled against the vein protruding from John’s neck. “Are you really in a position to bargain, Doctor?” he teased, rolling his hips against the thigh he straddled to exhibit his already considerable erection. 

John grasped Sherlock’s hand and leaned back, pressing the musician’s attuned hand to his own bulging trousers with a smug expression. Ice blue eyes went wide at the realization of the dimensions he was holding so casually. 

John dragged him down by the nape, whispering in a husky voice, “If you show me how to get up off the ground, I can show you how to fly.”

“What if I never want to come back down? How long can you keep this  _ up _ ?” The last letter popped in an attempt to regain the control that he’d so lately lost, though he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it back. “What is it you’ll need then, Doctor?”

“Everything you want is what I need,” John replied, slamming their mouths back together in a kiss that was more a struggle for dominance - all for show on Sherlock’s side, they both now knew. 

John’s body arched into the detective’s tongue as he licked and bit his way down John’s still somewhat army-toned chest, over his softening, trembling abdomen.

“I suppose I should…” Sherlock trailed off as his fingertips dipped beneath John’s belt for a brief second before his hand was swatted away. He found himself being forced back against the far arm of the sofa by a warm hand, firm on his collarbone. It fisted into his shirt as the other grasped just below the deep purple lapel and the two halves were torn apart from one another, buttons flying onto the rug and between cushions. 

“Never because you  _ should _ . Only because you want. What is it you want, Sherlock?”

“L-less.”

John pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s again, hard but sweet, tongue slow, exploring carefully before he pulled away. “And?”

“And more.”

Hips tilted slowly downward, a gentle pattern creating not quite enough friction. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock breathed, seeking his doctor’s mouth again, softer this time. “Yeah.”

Long, slender legs parted wider and bespoke trousers rose to meet the barely restrained desire of the man above him, making him beg silently as his eyes rolled back at the sensation, the want, the excitement at discovering he’d underestimated both John’s length and girth. He always missed something; for once, he was grateful for that. 

John slid his hand down Sherlock’s naked torso - concave chest with slightly rippling abdominal muscles - then lifted his palm and unfastened his own belt and trousers, pulling his cock out of his pants, licking his flattened palm and stroking himself twice, then gripping the base.

“This alright,” he breathed.

“Oh, god yes,” Sherlock replied, transfixed. 

“If I was such a foregone conclusion, which I obviously was - don’t deny it, we’ll save the row for later - then you’ve got lube stashed nearby. Where is it?” 

The slender man gestured with his shoulder to the space between a cushion and the arm of the sofa where his head was, and John let go of himself long enough to retrieve the bottle and pour a necessarily generous amount into his own hand, then offered it to Sherlock, who accepted while biting his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. 

“Nnnggghh, fuck, that’s it…” John moaned in relief as he stroked his incomparable length. He looked down and stared Sherlock in the eye. “Showed you mine.”

For the first time that John had seen, Sherlock’s face reddened. “Yes, well, anyone would want to show that.”

“What I want,” John began, unzipping the other’s trousers and unnecessarily smearing lubricant on the fabric in the process, “is to see you.”

Sherlock was sure that, despite the medical impossibility, his heart had literally skipped a beat. He reached his hand slowly, obediently, through the open zipper and into his pants, withdrawing a bit of silk and a perfect, pale cock, fully at attention. 

“Rub it for me?” John asked, commanding but gentle. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

Sherlock obliged, callused fingers wrapping gracefully around himself and beginning to stroke: once, twice, faster, his head falling back, five, six, rolling over the head, gasping; John handling his own cock expertly, a small moan escaping as he watched.

“Fuck this,” the doctor whispered, bracing his arms on either side of Sherlock’s head, “take us both.” He knelt up higher, a wanton “Chriiiiiiiiist yeeeeeesssss,” filling the flat as the detective’s violin-hardened fingertip swiped precum from his slit and twisted back down. Within minutes, John was pumping hard into Sherlock’s slick fist, the sensations of skin on skin on skin, the gaze of stone-blue eyes, those glistening, swollen cotton candy lips, and he was coming hard, gasping for air as he watched long strings of hot, white desire paint the porcelain chest, ruin the aubergine shirt, fleck the raven hair laid out so beautifully beneath him. 

Sherlock gaped in silent awe as the intense conclusion - their intense beginning - played itself out across his torso. 


	8. The Distance

The train barrelled through the London Underground carrying two men returning from a case as far from home as the tube could take them. Somewhere above them, a new snow was blanketing the streets beneath the pale light of the early winter dusk. It was certain that, back on Baker Street, steam rose outside their window.

“The first snow is falling down,” John remarked, apropos of nothing. 

“John,” the detective giggled, still high from solving the case, “perhaps you should have your head checked after that landing in the skip. This is hardly the first snow of the season.”

“No,” John admitted, chuckling himself at the memory, “but it’s the first since I moved in.” As half the patrons in their carriage hurried to change at King’s Cross, he swore he heard a lonesome whistle blowing, and he settled more deeply into his seat beside his partner, grateful for the simple thought,  _ I keep on going.  _

Sherlock gazed unselfconsciously at the shorter man to his left, too consumed by the blue skies of his eyes breaking through the dark clouds of people pressing in around them to notice his nervous smile. 

“You are the conductor of light,” he murmured.

“Still the poet, I see,” came a snide remark from across the aisle. 

“Poet? Wait…” Victor’s companion chimed in, “Are you…? Is this him?”

“Of all the tube cars on all the tracks in all of London, Sherlock Bloody Holmes has to be sitting on mine,” Victor recited, to the detective’s obvious annoyance. “Oh, that’s right, Sherlock, popular films have always been a waste of your precious time; you wouldn’t get that reference, would you?”

“He gets it,” John answered aggressively. 

“Trust me, he doesn’t,” Victor smirked, leaning back into the half-circle of his (apparently) boyfriend’s arm.

“Trust  _ me, _ ” John snapped back without humor, right hand claiming Sherlock’s thigh, “he does.”

Victor’s boyfriend chewed his gum happily, seeming to enjoy the tension. “Heard you’re a bit of a genius, Holmes? Solving crimes and entertaining this one,” he gestured toward Victor, “or at least, you did until I snatched him up, huh?”

“There’s a thread that runs between all of us and our actions. I simply find those threads and pull them back across the great divide,” Sherlock explained, searching the cabin for anything to extricate himself and John from the tedium of this conversation. 

“You must give quite a show to the believers.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, the ones who believe you can really do all that deduction stuff. I’m waiting for the chance to see for myself, but you’ve certainly got Victor taken. And you too, I’d imagine?” He nodded toward John, smiling.

John returned a smile with far too many teeth showing. “I believe in Sherlock Holmes, if that’s what you’re asking. Have since we met,” he cast a quick glance to his flatmate and his expression softened slightly, “always will.”

The train lurched and Victor nearly jumped to his feet, clearly having no intention of saying goodbye. His boyfriend, on the other hand, didn’t harbor such reservations. 

“It was nice to meet you, finally.” He gripped Sherlock’s hand briefly before being hauled out over the gap.

As the train pulled away once more, Sherlock unfolded the sheet of paper that’d been pressed into his palm, allowing John to read over his shoulder: 

_ There’s a story that begins and ends with you and I. Like a rose growing outside your window. Don’t let it die, Sherlock. Don’t let it die. -Moriarty _

John looked back in bewilderment to where they’d left Victor and his previously nameless companion. “I assume that’s his surname, but if he’d just met you… and already had this written…”

“Yes, John.”

“Who IS Moriarty?”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “I have no idea.”


End file.
